


Revolution Rim

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Pacific Rim AU, Revolution AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>15 years ago Jaeger pilots Monroe and Matheson saved the world from the kaiju incursions - but 15 years was a long time ago. The world has changed, and there's no need for jaeger pilots any more. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

131487.20.05.00 

 

Memories had a short shelf life; gratitude was fucked before the clean-up was finished. Monroe walked up to the graffiti-scarred wall and flashed his ink at the kaiju. Its pupil blew, the scanner hooking into the nanite-hive to access his credit. Apparently it approved. The spray-paint kaiju blew apart, paint flaying off bricks, and he stepped through into a wall of heat, sweat and throbbing sound of the hottest kaiju-beat.

It had been a refuge, a temple - the shattered roof preserved in splinters of stained glass - and now it was a club. Caged dancers hung over the floor, electric blue pvc banding their bodies, grinding against the bars to the screeching notes of the keyboard. Monroe rolled his sleeve down, buttoning it fastidiously, and headed for the bar. The few patrons who staggered into his path - pinprick eyed from the smoke and puffy with a full day of celebrations - got out of it quickly after one look at his face.

‘Whiskey,’ he told the bartender.

The girl cocked a pierced eyebrow and waved a hand at the shelves of brightly coloured alco-halers racked up behind her. Jaeger-red to kaiju-blue. ‘Half price on Rim Brew halers tonight, boss, in honour of the holiday.’

He felt his mouth curl humourlessly. Honour. 15 years and these half-cut, fresh-faced kids thought the best way to honour the countless dead was half-price vapourised liquor. He’d cry if he’d not given hope in humanity a long time ago - starting with himself.

‘Just whiskey,’ he said flatly. ‘No talking.’

The girl pouted blue lips - it was a trend, that smudge of glowing alien blue - and  gave him what he asked for: a drink and silence. He picked up the glass - spun crete crinkling under his fingers - and mutely raised a toast in the general direction of the Shatterstone.

‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

He tossed the liquor back, grimacing at the raw taste of it hitting his tongue. Good whiskey was becoming a thing of the past, of dusty, hoarded bottles and rich bastards like Monroe. With everyone high on halers and grendel, it wasn’t cost effective for most bars to stock it. The only reason this one did was that Monroe had made it a standing order worth their while. He caught the bartender’s attention and beckoned to her, lifting his glass in a mute order of ‘another’.

‘Mutter is you used to be a jaeger pilot,’ the girl said, leaning against the counter next to him, weight slouched back on her elbows.

He waited till the bartender had finished pouring the whiskey, then turned to look her up and down from tousled blonde hair to battered, scarred boots. Callused, practical hands and eyes leeched the same vivid, unnatural blue as the bartender’s lips from excess.

Rim-mouse, in the big city for the first time.

‘What if I was?’ he asked, voice rough and bored.

She shrugged and gave him a sly, slow smile. ‘Is it true that fucking is the closest thing there is to a neural handshake?’

Monroe choked as the whiskey met a startled laugh in his throat and gave her another look. She stretched, t-shirt riding up to flash a slice of tanned, toned stomach, and he felt the hot jerk of interest in his gut. Too damn young though. He was a lot of things, but he didn’t take advantage of rim-green kids - usually.

‘Fucking, or fighting,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask.’

Her smile turned into a bright, wicked grin that lit up her face, eyes sparkling mischieviously. She leaned in close, shoulder bumping his arm and breath warm against his jaw. ‘Guess.’ and Monroe changed his mind. He never said no to anything he wanted this much. He wasn’t capable.

 

For the last three years mornings had been the supervisor’s klaxon and a boot to the ribs, hard ground and damp bedrolls, the stink of unwashed skin and no breakfast. It felt strange to wake up in a tangle of silk sheets and heavy man, on a mattress that hadn’t yet seen better days. It was a good start to her new life, though, she decided.

Charlie wriggled out from under last night’s entertainment and scavenged around the room for her discarded clothes. Everything except for one boot and her belt.

‘Try the main entrance,’ the entertainment said, sitting up in bed. ‘We were in a hurry. Looks like you still are.’

Morning afters were delicate things in Charlie’s experience - full of disappointment, awkwardness and making sure they hadn’t stolen any of your shit. Except everything worth stealing she’d hawked for passage and in the cold light of day her ex-Jaeger pilot was even more sex on a stick than he’d been last night. A voice like gravel soaked in sin and the smirk of someone who was usually the one sneaking out with the dawn.

If she’d had time…

But, she shoved the temptation aside, she didn’t.

‘It’s morning,’ she said. Shaking out her jeans - the hard flip a habit after a year spent on the arid Saharan reclaim - she yanked them on over last night’s sweat and sex. ‘I’ve got places to be.’

Entertainment - Monroe, he’d told her, or Bass, but she wasn’t planning on getting attached - raked a hand through his sweaty hair. It stood up hedgehog bristles and rogue squiggles as he hung his arms over his knees. Pale eyes - she’d thought they were grey last night, but there was a frozen hint of blue - squinted at her.

‘You’re going to apply for the Jaeger program,’ he said.

In that voice - the more in disappointment than in anger voice, the we expected better from you voice, the resigned to a stupid idea voice. It put her back up more than it should. Charlie’d heard some variation on the theme from everyone from her dad to her last boss, she should be used to it by now.

Except he was a pilot. She guessed she’d thought he’d understand - or think he did.

‘I am,’ she said flatly.

‘You’re wasting your life,’ he said, voice gone bitter. Maybe being an ex-Jager pilot was why he didn’t understand. ‘10 years of dancing attendance on Matheson, scratching your ass and hoping for a natural disaster big enough they’ll send you to pick shit up.’

‘It’s my life,’ Charlie said. Put the single boot on, or carry it till she found the other? She decided on carrying it, letting it dangle from her fingers. ‘Look, I have to go. Gates open at dawn and I’m not crawling through girders for another year. It’s been fun. See ya.’

She turned her back on him and stalked out of the bedroom, bare feet slapping on warm tiled floors. At least the awkward part of morning afters had held true, she thought sourly.

It turned out that her losing her temper was probably for the best. Otherwise her first glimpse of Entertainment’s apartment in the light of day would have left her gawping like a yokel. Floor to ceiling hive-smart windows, half of them scrolling with code while the rest flickered between views of anything but Hong Kong; living nanite artwork on the walls - the colours rippling from neutral to darker hues as the hive picked up her mood from physical cues - and enough floor space that she could have done somersaults.

Even caught up in her determination not to care what this guy thought, she still stumbled over her own feet as she took it all in. Charlie didn’t know anyone that lived like this. Even before her Dad died, when she’d thought they’d been well-off, they’d not lived like this.

Yeah, well, so what - she thought defiantly. He was still out on the memorial drinking alone in a bar, picking up strangers for the night. Maybe he had somewhere nicer to sit, but he wasn’t that much different than her.

Except that once upon a time - whatever had happened since - he’d been able to maintain a drift. Charlie still didn’t know if she could do that.

She searched the room for her boot, peeking behind stands and sticking her hand down the back of cushions. Nothing. ‘Damn it, damn it,’ she muttered, dropping to her knees to peer under the tall chairs. There wasn’t even any dust.

‘Here,’ the entertainment rasped. Her boot dropped to the ground in front of her nose with a thump, chipped buckles rattling. Charlie grunted reluctant thanks and squirmed around to tug it on, yanking it tight over her ankle. He crouched down in front of her - still naked - and braced his elbows on his knees. ‘Sorry. It’s not my business what you do with your life. Matheson and I just...have a history. A disagreeable one. If you want to tie your star to his anchor though...’

Charlie snorted at him and yanked her other boot on, using his knee as a block. ‘Subtle.’

He shrugged and stood up, unabashedly naked. Not that he had anything to be abashed about - but still… She’d read that the Jaeger program aggressively selected against modesty. Pittman had written about it.

‘If you can’t show another human your skin, how can you flay your brain open for them to walk around in?’

Not that Charlie was particularly shy, but skin was not neutral. Otherwise the entertainment wouldn’t have been so...entertaining. She’d have to work on that. He offered her a hand up. She ignored it, scrambling to her feet on her own.

‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me,’ he said.

Charlie laughed at him, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m sure you’d be thrilled,’ she mocked. On a whim she stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed him, lips bumping over the corner of his mouth. Her hand caught on the slant of his hipbone for balance. ‘It was sweet.’

He caught her wrist as she stepped away, fingers wrapping around the narrow joint.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘Just in case you do become a famous pilot.’

She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Charlie,’ she said, drawing the syllables out over her tongue. ‘You used it often enough last night.’

‘Charlotte,’ he corrected her. Anyone else she’d have kicked for that, but it sounded distractingly hot in that rough, precise voice. He tightened his grip, trying to reel her in. ‘What’s your full name.’

She tugged her wrist free and headed for the door, tossing a grin back over her shoulder as she stepped over the threshold.

‘Charlie - not Charlotte - Matheson,’ she said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a minor change to the War Clock - 15 years since the last attack.

132947.97.33.11

 

Twenty. Twenty one.

Lean arms quivered- muscles pulled long and tight under sweat sheened skin - and Charlie’s chin bumped the bar. She let herself down with a grunt, weight dangling from the bar as she convinced herself that counted, and then up again. The rough metal of the bar scraped her skin, shredding yesterdays blisters, as she counted off the last three reps.

Twenty five.

Charlie dropped to the ground, stumbling as her knees absorbed the impact. Sweat dripped off her nose, itching in the crease between her shoulderblades, she wobbled over to the bedside table and grabbed the bottle of water. She sucked it dry, swallowing greedily until the cold water started to make her cough. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, elbows braced and fingers dangling the bottle between her knees, Charlie wiped her face on her sleeve.

When she’d signed up - fingers fumbling through the C and H because she’d forgotten how many years it had been since anyone had needed her permission for anything - she'd expected...something. Shocked and suspicious looks, someone sent running to fetch Matheson and tell him his niece was here while she waited in the centre of attention. He would be amazed and guilty; she would be distant and focused on the job.

Instead the recruiter squinted at her signature, called her Masterton and jabbed a needle into her arm to implant the RF chip. As for Matheson, she'd only seen him once. He dropped by to give the recruits a once-over, looked unimpressed and told Charlie not to bother introducing herself because she'd be out by the end of the month.

'Asshole,' she muttered to the memory. At the time she had just tripped over her own tongue, ridiculously overawed by the scruffy, hero sheen of him.

Charlie finished the water and grimaced, tossing it into the cell’s waste disposal. What she really resented was that it looked like he might be right. She was a rim-crawling scrapper, all dirty moves and joint-locks and headbutts. In a straight fight she could hold her on; in the formalised 1:0 rules of the combat room she ended up tapped out and confused most of the time. All her instincts were wrong.

She flopped back on the bed and stared at the rust crawling over the metal girders in the ceiling. Maybe everyone had been right and this was a bad idea. Maybe she should just give up now, while it was still her choice.

The thought made her feel sick. What else was she going to do? Back to the rim, dismantling the Wall for rations so the companies could hock it for cash? She’d been doing that for three years and already had a broken ankle, concussion and a shoulder that dislocated too easy to show for it. Another few years, she’d make a mistake and end up laid up past her ability to strap it up and just get on with it. End up on her back in one of the floating whorehouses that plied their way along the shores.

Vomit scalded the back of her throat at the thought, burbling up from her throat like a wave. She scrambled off the bed and retched into the bare toilet: exhaustion, trembling muscles and fear spewing out in spit and bile and flecks of nutrition bar.

No.

She waited out the last of the vomit and headed to the sink, flicking on the slow, brown water to wash her face. Cupping her palms under the trickle, she rinsed her mouth out. It tasted like stones and grit, but it was better than acid.

‘Charlie?’

The door creaked open and Jason stuck his head in, shaved down to prickles and razor rash in an attempt to look tougher.

Mean, Charlie told herself, wiping her face off with a towel. Jason was alright. Better than most of the legacies.

‘What?’ she asked, flicking the towel over his shoulder.

He grinned. ‘Chopper coming in from Pacific Command,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d want to know.’

If there was a chopper, that meant there might be orders. Might be. And if they needed Jaeger pilots then maybe - maybe - one of the recruits could get drafted in to test their compatibility. There were five Jaeger pilots left. Two of them hadn’t successfully maintained a neural handshake since their divorce and Matheson hadn’t drifted with anyone since he and Monroe had split.

The thought of him made Charlie go hot under her skin - vivid flicker-play memories skidding through her mind. She shoved them down - ok, she should have put the pieces together when he introduced himself, but who expected to find a legend propping up a bar - and grabbed her jacket.

‘Come on then,’ she said, flashing a grin that she didn’t feel. ‘Let’s go see.’

They raced through the corridors, heavy boots rattling, until they hit the clot of crew, recruits and support staff fouling up the landing base. Jason would have stayed at the back, trying to see over their heads, but Charlie had sharp elbows and was happy to use them. She squirmed through the press of flesh and uniform until she found a strut they could scramble up on.

‘Doesn’t look humanitarian,’ Jason said, disappointment in his voice. ‘They’d be scrambling the swings already.’

‘They’re unloading stuff,’ Charlie agreed, leaning on his shoulder. Maybe - the thought eeled through her head - she could get a job doing that? Or running the swings? It galled, the thought of watching every else have her dream, but it was better than the alternative. Right? ‘Just another delivery run of cardboard food and loo roll.’

‘Yeah, well, I had plans for tonight anyhow,’ Jason sighed, not even making a good go of covering up his disappointment. ‘My pod have a keg of moonshine that’s just about ready to...’

Charlie tuned him out, staring dry-mouthed and ringing-eared at the chopper as a tall woman with long, wheat-blonde hair jumped down, steadying herself with one hand on her stocky companion’s arm.

‘Fetch steps,’ she ordered, voice accentless and carrying.

‘Who’s that?’ Charlie asked. She knew the answer, but she asked anyhow. After all the maybes that had died today, she deserved her ‘maybe I was wrong’ to pan out.

Two techs dragged a set of heavy metal steps over to the chopper, the woman fussing over the thin, blond boy who gingerly climbed down them. Jason watched it with no particular interest.

‘The Pittmans?’ he said. ‘They’re just back, they live here half the year. Nothing there to get us suited up.’

‘Rachel Pittman?’ Charlie checked, waiting for Jason’s nod.

It rocked her - everything her Dad had said since that first ‘she’s dead’ thrown into doubt. For some reason the whole thing made her laugh, a sharp, sour sound because she really did have nobody and no-one, didn’t she?

Jason nudged her. ‘You know them?’

‘I read the books,’ Charlie said stiffly. The Pittmans’ co-authored books, the ones that never had any author picture on the blurb. Well, Charlie thought with vicious humour, you’d not want your estranged daughter using those to track you down would you? Overcome with the urge to be somewhere, anywhere, else, she jumped down and twisted her fingers in Jason’s sleeve. ‘Come on.You said you had a drink?’

She dragged him away, shrugging off his curiosity until he got the hint and stopped asking.

 

* * *

 

Techs in Arbiter exo-skeletons unloaded crates of medical equipment and supplies from the back of the chopper. Huge glass cases full of still twitching kaiju parts, wet nerve endings thick as a man’s wrist and wriggling in the preservative. Cases upon cases of pills and potions and pallatives

It was living, moving, crushing chaos. Yet Miles was watching a slim back and tousled blonde hair disappear back into base. He felt the familiar wrench of guilt and envy and that unshakeable sense of connection.

It had confused him until he saw her grin, turning a pretty face into something more. She reminded him of Bass - which would have pissed his old friend off. He’d gotten enough hassle back in the day, with those curls and that mouth. It was true though. That’s why Miles wanted her gone. Bad memories, and good ones. He wanted her to go before she got jaded and corrupted, before he did that to another grinning, blue-eyed chancer.

‘Miles,’ Rachel snapped. Blue-eyed, but not a chancer and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile. She’d got him his supplies though, so she’d earned his attention.

‘What?’ he asked, turning his back on the girl.

‘Bit young for you,’ she said cuttingly.

He ignored that, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans and waiting. She crossed her arms and did the same. Miles won. Rachel never had the patience for dominance displays. With a snort she waved her hand at the crates.

‘They refused to give my the access to the new research,’ she said, pushing her sleeves up. Nano-ink crawled from her fingertips to her elbow in geometic, glowing lines - mimicking the suture lines on a kaiju’s skin. ‘It’s based on my research, but apparently I can’t be trusted with it.’

She gave a sharp little cock of her head, glaring at him like it might be his fault somehow.

‘You can’t be, Rachel,’ he pointed out. ‘That’s why you stay here, with us, instead of somewhere more civilised.’

She grimaced sourly at the reminder of their mutual exile - his penance, her...he wasn’t entirely sure she thought she’d done something wrong. Even now.

Reminded, he glanced at his nephew. The last family he had left - this sickly boy - and Miles felt nothing when he looked at him. No, that wasn’t true. He felt vaguely repulsed. There was something about the boy’s greasy pallor, always dewed with sweat, and vague blue eyes that made Miles think of something found under a rock. The sort of something you wanted to step on.

Not the boy’s fault though.

‘Danny.’

‘Uncle Miles,’ Danny said, mustering a thin smile. There was blood caked around his nostrils and in the corners of his mouth. ‘You kick any ass since I’ve been gone?’

‘A few. We have a new batch of recruits.’

Danny rolled his eyes - abruptly reminding Miles that he wasn’t just Rachel’s son, he was Ben’s too.

‘I’m sure I’ll make lots of new friends,’ he said, voice dry and dusty. ‘Just like always.’

Rachel put a hand on the back of his neck, tatt’s pulsing as they took biometric readings. ‘You should get some rest, Danny. It’s was a long flight.’

For a second, Miles thought the boy was actually going to say something. Instead he just wiped his sleeve over his nose - trying to get those last smears of blood - and nodded.

‘Yes, mom,’ he said meekly.

‘We’ll bring your bags,’ she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Her open affection for the boy always seemed...wrong. Rachel was all sharp edges and intellect, prickly resentful of anything that didn’t fit in her cool, logical world. Even marrying Ben had seemed carefully, strategically thought out, probably right down to the cost benefit analysis of intelligent kids and convenience for collaborative projects. Her kids, though, she loved with an open, easy affection that she didn’t realise weirded everyone out.

Kid.

Her kid, who shuffled away towards his quarters like an old man with bad bones. Like Miles felt some mornings.

‘He’s getting worse,’ Rachel said, voice small and terribly lost.

He was. There was nothing they could do about it.

‘I’m sorry.’

Rachel lifted her chin and gave him a cold, hard look. ‘You should be.’

She turned her back on him and stalked over to berate Aaron for mishandling a stuffed skin louse He absorbed the abuse with the equanimity, apologising cheerfully for things that were and weren’t his fault.

Miles shook his head, shoving his fingers through his ragged hair - absently noting it needed cropped again. ‘We all should, Rachel. That’s the point.’

 


	3. Chapter 3

Routine made the days pass faster. Wake up, scrub up and drag your hungover ass to the combat room to sweat out - suffer out - the booze, a couple of hours in the shop keeping his girl tuned and sweet, all 1000 plus tonnes of her, and then to the comm for a fruitless shift on the seismic-alert. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if he missed one day, or 20, but he’d evolved a ‘watched pot’ superstition about it. As long as he was here, waiting and ready, nothing would happen. Then a bottle of booze - and sometimes a woman - and back to his quarters to start all over again.

Back when his watch started, the routine made the endless days pass faster. Now he kept waking up older and wondering where the year had gone.

Miles crouched on the edge of the mat, waiting for his sour stomach to settle, and watched the cadets spar with weary eyes. They pushed themselves to show off for him, sparring faster and throwing each other harder. Staffs flashed, clacking against his other and hitting muscle with a distinct, soft thud, and skin slapped skin.

Like choreographed fucking.

He looked for her. One day she’d finally give up and go home, but not yet. Her hair was dragged back in a loose braid that had given up halfway down the tail of her hair and she was sparring with the Neville kid again. It wasn’t pretty, but Miles had enough twist to find it beautiful to watch.

First time he saw her, he’d figured she’d an acrobatic fighter. All kicks and flips, reliant on speed to roll her out of the way of  fist. There wasn’t much to her after all, under all the hair and attitude. She was a grappler though, solid feet and no elegance. She wasn’t good on the floor though. No matter how many times the trainers tried to beat it into her that the point wasn’t to win, she couldn’t seem to internalise that.

Case in point. She absorbed a blow to the side, staff thumping hard enough to make Miles’ wince, in order to get close enough to throw Jason. She hooked her foot behind his knee and her hand in the small of his neck and rolled him over one hip, riding him down to pin him with her elbow in his throat and her knees straddling his waist.

‘Point to Neville,’ the instructor said, frustration snapping at the edges of his voice.

By this time she didn’t seem surprised. Jason grinned and slapped her hip - almost ass - and said something that made her flick his forehead. He looked at her with big, puppy eyes as she scrambled off him and hauled him to his feet.

‘Neville,’ Miles growled. ‘I need a partner.’

He rolled his neck, the crackle-pop of his bones making him grouchier, and pushed himself to his feet. The kid stared at him, caught somewhere between pants-wetting terror and smugness. Miles hooked his fingers to beckon him onto the mat.

It wouldn’t do, he told himself, to let her get attached to anyone here. It would just be harder for her to leave. Besides, no-one deserved Julia Neville as a mother in law.

He padded out to meet Jason in the centre of the mat. The kid’s initial nerves were giving way to cockiness, shoulders loosening and smirk growing. Miles could practically see the thoughts scrolling through his eyes: ‘just another old man’.

They faced off, balanced and still as they waited for the first move. The first match was played out in flexed joints and shifts of weight, until…

Jason jabbed the butt of the staff at his thigh. Smart move. He’d stripes of scar tissue on that leg from Bonespider in San Francisco - from back before they had jaegers. Of course, that had been over twenty years, he’d adjusted. Miles blocked the jab with his staff and head-butted Jason over their crossed weapons. The kid’s nose broke with a pop and yelp and he staggered backwards, hand clasped over his bloody nose. He looked confused and he’d dropped his staff.

Shaking away the stars that threatened his vision - headbutts never had only one victim - Miles tucked the shod end of his staff under Jason’s and flipped it at the kid.

‘Matheson...’ the trainer protested. Weakly. Jason needed to learn this lesson, but with both his parents being rangers? No-one else wanted to teach it to him.

Miles spun the staff over his hand, tracing a dead figure-of-eight in the air. This wasn’t, they were reminded every time they got on the floor, a fight, it was a conversation. People still got hurt, and more importantly…

‘Out there, in the jaeger?’ he said, tilting his head towards the sea. ‘That is a fight. You will be hurt. So learn to suck it up and keep going.’

To his credit, Jason wiped his nose on his hand and took up his stance again. This time he waited for Miles to strike first. He kept losing. He kept getting up. Maybe the kid had potential beyond keeping his parents happy after all.

Block and counterblock, the familiar ache of impact in his joints and the muscle twitch energy that sped up his reaction time. It wasn’t a jaeger; it was the closest he could get to it these days. She was there in the corner of his eye, watching him with intent blue eyes.

Clever girl.

‘Enough,’ Miles said abruptly, stepping back.

Jason jerked out a stiff bow, then wiped his nose again. Blood smeared up his arm.

‘You did well,’ Miles told him. If it was reluctant - a little - he was pretty sure he didn’t show.

‘I lost.’

Miles shrugged and leant on his staff. ‘I’m just better.’

The kid lifted his chin. ‘For now.’

‘That’s all any of us have,’ Miles said. He nodded to the rest of the cadets. ‘Get back to work.’

He slung the staff over his shoulders like a yoke, using it to loosen the clenched muscles in his back, and left them to it. The instructor who’d protested caught up with him in the changing room.

‘Sir. Marshall Matheson,’ Teoh said, a tidy, short ginger man with a black belt in pretty much anything that involved kicking someone’s ass up around their ears. ‘Is this a good time?’

‘I’m taking a shower,’ Miles said, stripping his shirt over his head. He could feel the stretch of old scars under his skin, neural-burn lesions scraping over bone. ‘If you were prettier, it’d be better. What do you want.’

‘The Masterton girl.’

Miles hesitated and covered it with a shrug, stripping his loose practice trousers off. He tossed them in the hamper with the rest and stepped under the shower to scrub off sweat. Lemon scented suds dripped down his body as it worked the gel into his hair and down his chest.

‘What about her?’

‘She fights like you,’ Teoh said.

‘No.’

Teoh frowned at him. ‘This is my job, Marshall. She’s compatible.’

A swipe of Miles’ thumb punched the power of the shower up, rinsing the soap away down the drain in foamy swirls. He doused his head and shook like a dog, shedding water.

‘She’s a kid,’ he said. ‘I’m a fucking relic. Let it go.’

Teoh grimaced, the misery of a man who’s having to beat a willing horse on his face. ‘She wants this,’ he said. ‘The kid’s getting her ass handed to her and she just keeps slogging on. She deserves a chance.’

Miles waded into the baths. Every Shatterdome he’d ever been to - from Alaska to Hawai’i - had hot baths to soak in. The drift shared the neural load, but it also downloaded the physical load of it onto muscles and joints.

It might not feel like you were piloting a thousand ton puppet of iron and ingenuity, but it did feel like you’d been wrestling a seven foot tall monster with too many limbs. Or to put it more simply, you still fucking hurt afterwards.

He slid down, bracing his hips against the lip of the seat. It was almost hot enough to burn, stinging his skin and boiling out the last of the toxins.

‘I’m giving her a chance,’ he said tiredly, holding up his hand when Teoh went to argue. ‘I’m not helping any of them, Teoh. Let her go back home to her family.’

Sourness tightened Teoh’s mouth and he shook his head. ‘She’s got no family, been working the wall since she was 18. This is what she wants, and she’d be good. I can tell.’

Miles closed his eyes, not wanting that information. ‘When you’re the Marshal, Teoh, you can make that call.’

When he opened his eyes the other man was gone, so was whatever peace of mind he’d managed to scrape together. The unrest niggled for the rest of the day, even when he was shoulder deep in Devildog M to work on her hydraulics.

‘Getting rusty, girl,’ he grunted, stepping back and wiping thick grease on his jeans. As if he could hurt her feelings, he gave the sleek, painted wall of her calf an affectionate slap. ‘Still pretty though, darlin’.’

Maybe he should let another team pilot her. The idea occurred to him every now and then. Even with no more kaiju, there were uses for giant robots that the general public were too afraid to decommission and melt down into cars. It had been five years since she’d been out of the dome, not since the last time he drifted with Bass. Since he found what his brother, his left hand side, had let Rachel do.

Miles laughed roughly to himself. Back then, he’d been all sorts of righteous, but now...well, it wasn’t like he’d stopped her. So maybe it’d be best for Devil to give her to another team, one that wasn’t tainted. He just couldn’t - quite - bring himself to stomach it.

‘You and me, girl,’ he said, closing up the panel and sealing it. ‘Getting rusty together. Best thing for warriors, staying out of the way of everyone else.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

Charlie - Charlotte, he liked the way that lingered on his tongue - was more wiry than supple and splotched like a tortoiseshell cat with bruises. She was too stubborn for her own good and had no idea that a single, ridiculously sweet smile was enough to get him to do damn near anything for her.

Not his type at all.

She lay under him on the floor, smelling of clean sweat and that damn lemon soap they bought in bulk at the dome, with one hand braced against his chest. A frown worried at her eyebrows as the AI’s melodious voice said: 3.2.

‘You’re doing better,’ he pointed out, smoothing the crease from between her eyebrows with his thumb.

‘Not good enough,’ Charlie protested.

Bass rolled off her and sprawled out on the mat, stretching until his joints popped and the world went soft-edged for a minute.You knew you were getting old...er, he thought wryly, when you were tempted to describe a good stretch as better than sex.

‘You could just tell him who you are,’ he pointed out, keeping his gaze on the ceiling. Charlie was a smudge of gold and pink in the corner of his eye. She shook her head.

‘It would be weird,’ she said firmly, then in a softer voice. ‘They would probably just kick me out sooner.’

He took her hand, twisting his fingers through hers and stroking the tender skin on the underside of her wrist. She didn’t squirm away, uncomfortable as a cat. That was progress. When she’d first come looking for help, he’d planned to be good. Keep the Charlotte he’d slept with distinct from the Charlie he trained.

That hadn’t worked.

‘You can’t lie in the drift,’ he said. To him the longing - and the bitterness - in his voice was obvious. He didn’t think Charlie noticed.

‘I know,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not a secret, I just don’t think they’d care.’

‘He would,’ Bass told her. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, licking his way down the delicate tendons. Of course, the longer she didn’t tell Miles, the longer Bass had this, so… ‘I probably should.’

Charlie snorted and rolled over, swinging a long leg over his hip. She pinned his hands to the floor, leaning her weight on them, and grinned down at him. ‘Feeling creeper about screwing your drift-mate’s niece?’

‘Something like that,’ Bass said, sliding around the edges of confession.

It wasn’t like he’d been dating Miles, they’d just been...everything. Brothers, confessors, best friends and - post drift, with the differences between sex and wanking still blurry around the edges - lovers.

Charlie twisted bonelessly as she leaned down to kiss him, so the only points of contact where groin and lips. ‘We could always stop?’ she teased against his mouth. ‘Stick to sparring. If it would make you more comfortable.’

She squirmed her hips against him, making his breath hitch hot in his throat.

‘Trust me,’ he growled. ‘It wouldn’t.’

Charlie grinned and sat back, ignoring his groan as her bottom pressed against his cock, and stripped her top off. It shouldn’t have been hot enough to scrape want through Bass like it did. He was rich, he was dangerous, he dealt in things that people needed. Getting laid was never a problem. Women in lace with kaiju-bones pierced through their clit; men with nanite-hives inked over their groin they’d give him the passes to. Charlie had a practical cotton bra and the only marks on her skin were blood, not ink.

He’d asked. Most people these days had one hive on their skin. It made life easier. She’d said her Dad was religious - Bass supposed he’d found that later in life, because the Ben he’d known didn’t believe in anything bigger than his brain - and she didn’t have the cash now.

Bass had offered to pay for it - she could get a full sleeve out of his petty cash, for fuck’s sake - but then he’d not seen her for a week. Pride. The Matheson family flaw.

He hooked his fingers in her pants and pulled her forwards, kissing the flat plane of her stomach. She laughed and twisted her fingers in his hair, guiding him down.

The AI interrupted, unphased by its bad timing. ‘Sir? Your client is here.’

‘Fuck,’ he groaned. They were early. Anyone else he’d make them wait, but…

He pressed one last kiss to Charlie’s stomach, dipping his tongue into her belly button to make her squirm. ‘I can’t blow this client off, Charlie. Next time?’

She shrugged and rolled off him, wriggling back into her t-shirt. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.’

‘Very funny.’ He was a lot less graceful getting to his feet. The thought of going in as he was, half-hard, sweaty and shirtless, occurred to him. Funny though the look on his face would be, it probably wouldn’t be worth it in the long run. He headed for the shower, telling the AI to make his excuses, and glanced at Charlie on the way by. ‘You can leave through my private door, instead of going through the club.’

She’d pulled her hair loose, letting it fall around her face, and a blue eye glanced at him through the sandy tangle. ‘I know what you do.’

‘Oh?’ he said, stopping.

‘Yeah.’ She shrugged her jacket on. ‘I don’t like it, but it’s not my business. I just...don’t want you thinking I’m so dumb that sending me around the side door is going to keep me in the dark.’

Bass hesitated, because...fuck, she mattered. It wasn’t hearts and flowers and promises, but he liked her straightforwardness and her smile and the firm curve of her ass.

‘I don’t think you’re dumb,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want my shit stinking up your life, ok?’

She bit her lip, chewing at the soft curve. ‘Maybe you don’t need to have your life so full of shit then,’ she said. ‘I mean, if you don’t think I should see it? It doesn’t seem like you’re so happy doing it.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. She started to smile, he cut her off before she could give him that. ‘It’s not your business, Charlie.’

She looked hurt - her emotions so on the surface of her skin that Bass didn’t think he’d learn anymore if they drifted - but nodded. ‘You’re right. Sorry. Later.’

Watching her go felt like a missed opportunity - but it wasn’t one Bass could afford to take. He scrubbed the stink of hard work off in the shower and shrugged on a suit. It rumpled against wet skin, his damp hair soaking the collar, but it didn’t have to look like he tried. Just that he had the money too if he wanted.

He rolled his sleeves back on his way into the office, the matte black ink of his hive a status symbol and the caged M a reminder of why he was the best.

‘General Tra...’

He trailed off, swallowing the last syllable of his afternoon appointments name. Instead of the heavy-set General, fat layered on over work-built muscle like a disguise, a slender blonde sat poised in front of his desk. She didn’t look much like the one that had just left - not to him - but she was almost as familiar.

(He’d seen them both naked. But in Rachel’s case she’d been 8 months pregnant, in labour and smeared in kaiju blue at the time - so it didn’t have quite the same impact as Charlie’s tanned legginess.)

‘Rachel. I didn’t know you were back,’ he said, leaning against the doorframe. She looked at home framed by the glass tanks of preserved kaiju, the greasy yellow light that stopped the blue from sporing making her looking gilded. ‘Most people make an appointment.’

She glanced over at him, her mouth doing that thing that suggested he was a repugnant little man without doing anything so crass as sneering. One hand tucked a swoop of white blonde hair behind her ear.

‘Most people don’t have what I do on you,’ she said coldly.

He gave her his best empty smile. ‘Right back at you, Rachel. How is your son?’

She stiffened, blue-inked hands clenching in her lap. ‘Don’t.’

‘Rachel, Rachel,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk. ‘When are you going to learn, with a weak spot that big don’t start slap fights.’

Behind his empty, barbed pleasantries, suspicion curdled in his chest like old cream. It left a similar bad taste in his mouth. Had Charlie known that Rachel was his interruption? Was this one of Rachel’s sporadic attempts to even out the balance of their relationship entirely in her favour? Anger dug spikes into his tongue, nearly muting him.

‘Speaking of your son, how’s your daughter?’ he asked.

Rachel didn’t move, her eyes as empty of anything approaching humanity as a kaiju’s. ‘My family is none of your concern, not anymore. Thank God.’

No. He knew Rachel’s face when she was plotting, she would have given him...something. He relaxed back into his chair, more relieved than he liked to admit. Maybe later he’d get Charlie to tell him why she was hiding from her mother. For now...

‘I was never that concerned about your family, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Not even when I was partnered with Miles. Of course, neither were you.’

That actually made her flinch, although only someone who’d been her reluctant associate as long as he had would notice it. She looked away from him, staring at the mounted eye of the ToothSpider as if a glob of fire-crystallized blood and fluid the size of beach-ball was better than looking at him.

‘I need more supplies,’ she said. ‘Our usual deal.’

‘Hmmm,’ he said. Her eyes snapped back to him, and he shrugged. ‘Supplies are getting scarce, Rachel. Kaiju are no longer a renewable resource. Prices are going up.’

‘Not for me.’

He stood up and leaned forwards, arms braced on the desk. ‘If you want neural fluid, pay the going rate, Rachel. Be glad I’m willing to do business with you at all.’

Her head tilted and she smiled at him, a thin, sour twitch of her lips. ‘I can ruin you, Bass.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But without me, neural fluid won’t be expensive. It’ll be gone. So...’

She grimaced, but thrust her arm out to be scanned. Her fingers flexed absently, like she could feel it.

‘You have no idea,’ she said pleasantly. ‘How glad I was when Miles saw you for the crawling little user that you are.’

‘Both of us for what we are,’ he reminded her. ‘Don’t forget that. I’ll have the fluid delivered in three days, the usual drop spot.’

She pulled her arm back, yanking her sleeve down. ‘I need it now.’

‘You’ll get it in three days -’

There was an explosive bang outside - rattling the not-quite-dead kaiju organs to twitching - and someone screamed.


End file.
